


(Beyond) Trust

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Series: The Sum of the Parts 'verse [2]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Ending, Blindfolds, F/M, Incest, M/M, Post-Series, Restraints, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-16
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He trusts them – with his life, eyes closed and everything; that’s neither the question nor the issue. (Post-series, alternate canon.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Beyond) Trust

He trusts them – with his life, eyes closed and everything; that’s neither the question nor the issue. The issue is that, sometimes, the two of them want just a bit more. They want that last shred of control he’s so unwilling to abandon and let anyone have. What they ask for is something that exists beyond trust, in total surrender and sheer faith. And when he thinks about it for more than a second, it’s a fair demand. Isn’t sheer faith what he asked from Lincoln in Fox River? From Sara after Fox River?

The “Yes” falling from his lips feels like plunging in the unknown, dark and shiny, exhilarating and scary but liberating.

\- - - - -

His wrists are tied above his head with silk ties; black silk ties, as far as he knows. The muscles in his arms, shoulders and back strain against the tight bonds, and there is nothing he can do. He wraps his fingers around the bedpost bars and holds onto them.

His eyes are blindfolded with the same kind of fabric, the smooth scarf wrapped carefully in a way that ensures he can’t see anything beside a blurry sliver of light when he looks down his nose. He blinks hard beneath it, trying to peek through it; it’s in vain.

He’s not comfortable with the situation. Not comfortable at all. But then, that’s part of the plan, part of the pleasure, isn’t it? His, theirs. Releasing control when he’s so bad at it, when he needs so much to be in charge, or at least to have the illusion that he can handle things and situations the way he wants to.

Ties and blindfold. Sara wanted to tie his hands because she enjoys the hints of instinctive struggle it elicited the couple of times they did this, the way he writhed and tried to sit up and reach for them, the violent and ambiguous pleasure he got from being restrained. Lincoln wanted to blindfold him because he knows Michael, knows that his fears and fantasies root in the dark and the unknown, and that the hazier the line between said fears and fantasies, the sharper the release.

As often they did, his wife and his brother ganged up on him and this... _this_ happened. Ties and blindfold, arms spread out in V and eyes seeing nothing but dark silk. He would say he should be happy his legs are free, but he knows that if they haven’t tied his ankles too, it’s merely for practical reasons. They’ll need access for... whatever. He shivers in anticipation. It’s not as if he even didn’t agree to it or protested, though. On the contrary. He likes keeping them happy.

Lincoln and Sara like keeping him happy too, and as a matter of fact, they’re making keeping him happy their goal, this afternoon. He inhales deeply as they kiss right above his face, so close that he can hear and smell them, so close that their chins brush his. Eventually, they press their lips to his. Wet and soft and sloppy. When their mouths part, they slide down, following erratic, maddening paths into his neck, across his chest, up and down his stomach – Sara’s teeth grazing his nipples the way she likes having it done to her, Lincoln laying possessive bites-kisses that will leave marks. Not going much lower than his navel, making him pant and clench his jaws not to beg; he won’t beg so soon.

They move, rearrange themselves, Sara on her hands and knees above him. He senses motion above his belly and thighs, hears a long pleased sigh, and he knows that Lincoln has buried himself into Sara. Taking her, taken by her, same difference. She moans as she pushes back against Lincoln, strokes Michael’s forehead, and lets the tip of his erection rub against the soft skin of her stomach. He rolls his hips and tries to get more contact, more friction, but she won’t allow it for now.

“Lincoln feels so good,” she breathed out into his mouth. “But you know how good he feels, don’t you, Michael? So thick and hot and owning you...”

Her long hair brushes his face when she leans down to kiss his eyes through the blindfold. He gasps, gasps again when an unmistakable moist sound indicates that Lincoln has withdrawn, or that Sara has moved out of his grasp. He wants to touch and hold her, and he tries to extend his arm; the silk bites into his skin, and keeps him down and offered. So soft, so delicate, so strong, that peculiar kind of bond.

Sara rotates above Michael, keeping him metaphorically as well as literally in the dark for a few seconds before what she and Linc have in mind becomes clear. She straddles his face, hovering only a few inches away from his hungry mouth, her thighs on each side of his head. She bows down and dives for his lower stomach. Her lips fasten around him, sucking and licking, eventually finding Lincoln’s mouth. For a few seconds, they stop everything and breathe, hot and wet, around him. His head lolls back into the pillows, and he hears himself demand in a raspy voice, “For God’s sake! Just do it...”

“Maybe we should also gag him, next time?” Sara suggests with a smile in her voice.

“I dunno... I like it when he begs.”

They kiss; they share him and run their tongues along his length; they hum around him when he lets out a desperate sob; Lincoln chuckles and sits down on his legs to immobilize him when he arches up, body forming a tight bow, wanting, hoping... he’s not sure what... anything they’re willing to give him. A perfect blend of the two of them, perhaps. His mouth waters at the tangy smell of sweat and precome Lincoln left between Sara’s thighs. He would die of embarrassment if he didn’t crave for it, for them, so much that he doesn’t care anymore. Maybe it’s the blindfold that enhances his other senses, makes Sara and Lincoln’s mingled scents and flavors saltier and sharper, and sends his mind reeling. Or the fact that he can’t move, can only use his mouth one way or another to ask for what he needs and pleasure them. He takes advantage of the moment where Sara lets her attention wander and lowers herself a bit to lick, tongue her, and taste the two of them on her; satisfied to hear her moan and swear, to feel her move her hips and rub down.

They talk to each other, keeping him out of their conversation. Their whispered words brush his heated flesh, not loud enough for him to understand what they say. He’s not supposed to understand, anyway. He’s supposed to lie there and trust them, let them decide what’s best for him.

His muscles strain again, roll and shift, and Sara blows reassuring _shh_ sounds that are not helping at all. Lincoln shushes him and slips one rough finger between his buttocks. Not helping either.

They move and handle him, just as he’s moved and handled things and people for years. It’s starting to feel oddly nice to let them have their way and decide for him. Hard because it’s so much not like him; easy because it makes everything so simpler.

In one fluid gesture, Lincoln pushes Michael’s knees apart and settles between them, angles his hips up and slides into him. Michael shouts. At the sensation of fullness, at the realization that part of the slickness on Lincoln’s shaft – the very slickness that smoothes his way inside of Michael – is from Sara, at the feeling of Sara’s mouth sliding all the way down and engulfing him. He shouts and bites her inner thigh, then soothes the sting with a sweep of tongue. He can’t see, but he can picture it, the entanglement they make. Every minute detail. He clenches around Lincoln and laps at Sara. That’s the last initiative they grant him before they start moving again.

It’s bumpy and messy in a way he’s unfamiliar with. His whole body rocks in rhythm with Lincoln’s whimsical thrusts; his erection scrapes against Sara’s teeth and hits the back of her throat. With a lush drag of tongue, she straightens up. He whines at the loss of the warm and wet pressure; only to whine louder, in arousal this time, when he understands that she and Linc are kissing again, sharing him again.

Their hands join around him, stroke and pull, ruthless in their drive to bring him to release. They don’t ask him anything, not with words at least, but what they expect from him is obvious. So he unwraps his fingers from around the bedpost bars, lets his hands go limp, and shuts his eyes beneath the soft blindfold. His jaw slack, his legs spread wide, his stomach clenching and unclenching to the cadence they lay on him, he surrenders, drowns in their touch and care, and revels in his helplessness.

-End-


End file.
